‘Ah, the poet
What a simple word,
To mask a deranged lover.
Bashfully painting symphonies
Of silence through compositions.
Some listen to the melody,
Others hear a brewing melancholy,
Is anything ever the way it seems?
Surrounded by an echo of thoughts,
Seemingly bewitched fingers
Entwined around a piece of graphite,
Tucked neatly into wood – a pencil,
With a sole purpose to vandalise paper?
The soundless voice travels through sight,
As unrequited love is immortalised,
Years of toil and suffering turn into poetry.
Forevermore – the poet’s offering,
A fragile soul in return for sanity?